Three days after Fred's soul was shattered by his own family, he sat under the broken fan in Cell Block D, mechanically eating watery porridge from a cracked plastic bowl.
Around him, life continued:
Inmates laughing loudly over card games played with cigarette butts.
Guards whistling as they patrolled, batons tapping against metal bars.
Rats scurrying between abandoned shoes and stained mattresses.
Fred's eyes were empty now.
His heart — hollow.
Until a figure plopped down beside him with a wide grin:
"Yo, freshman. You look like death."
It was Dante Otieno, 24, tall and wiry, dark-skinned, with a messy afro and a single silver tooth flashing when he spoke.
Dante wore his prison jumpsuit like a designer outfit, sleeves stylishly torn off, revealing muscled arms covered in tattoos of snakes and skulls.
He smelled like cheap soap and danger.
Fred barely looked up.
Dante nudged him:
> "Come on, man. Don't be so dead. I got a way to make your life easier here."
Fred didn't answer.
He didn't care anymore.
But Dante kept talking, voice low and conspiratorial:
> "There's an old storeroom behind the showers. Forgotten by the guards. We're putting together... a little business. Smokes, candy, even a little weed."
Fred still didn't react.
Dante leaned in, grinning wider:
> "You help us, freshman, and you'll eat better. Sleep better. Guards will look the other way."
Fred heard the unspoken words.
Refuse... and life would become hell.
Even worse than now.
He nodded slightly.
Dante clapped him on the back like they were old friends.
> "Knew you were smart, man. Meet me tonight. Midnight."
And just like that, Fred was pulled into the underbelly of prison life.
--
The showers at night were a graveyard.
Water dripped from rusted pipes onto cracked tiles.
The air reeked of mold, urine, and something sourer — like rotting hope.
Fred followed Dante's lanky figure through the maze of damp corridors.
Behind a half-broken door, they entered the "storeroom" —
a forgotten space filled with old mattresses, rusted pipes, and the strong stench of mildew.
Several men stood around makeshift tables, dealing in forbidden goods:
Pato, 28, short, stocky, missing three fingers on his left hand.
Brayo, 31, bald, with a long scar running from his ear to his collarbone.
Kimani, 23, thin as a wire, always sniffing like he had a permanent cold.
They greeted Dante like a king.
Fred stood awkwardly at the door.
Dante wrapped an arm around him:
> "This is Freshman. Our new runner."
Fred tensed.
Runner?
> "Relax," Dante whispered. "You just deliver goods. Small stuff. Easy."
Fred had no choice.
Not really.
He nodded again.
The men grinned.
Pato tossed him a small cloth pouch.
Inside — cigarette papers, tiny bags of weed, cheap candies wrapped in greasy foil.
Fred was instructed to hide it under his mattress until morning.
> "Tomorrow, you deliver to Cell Block F," Dante said.
"Guy named Blackie. He'll pay you."
Fred left the room with his heart pounding — but not with excitement.
With fear.
---
The next morning, Fred did as instructed.
He moved through the corridors carefully, heart thundering with each step.
He found Blackie easily — a massive man with skin so dark it gleamed purple under the weak lights, tattoos swirling around his neck like black vines.
Fred handed him the pouch discreetly.
Blackie handed him a small roll of cash.
Success.
Fred turned to leave.
But as he reached the corner... he walked straight into Officer Kipkorir — a fat, red-faced guard known for his cruelty.
Kipkorir's eyes narrowed immediately.
He snatched the roll of cash from Fred's hand.
Unfolded it.
Saw the hidden contraband symbols drawn on the bills.
Fred froze.
Time seemed to slow.
Kipkorir's smile was slow and cruel.
> "Congratulations, boy," he said, voice dripping with mockery.
"You just bought yourself a one-way ticket to hell."
Fred tried to explain — stammering, heart hammering — but Kipkorir already had his baton raised.
And in full view of dozens of inmates, Fred was beaten to the ground.
---
That night, bleeding and bruised, Fred was dragged into solitary confinement — a tiny cell with no bed, no toilet, no light.
Just cold stone walls and the smell of mold.
Hours later, he heard a familiar voice laughing outside the iron door.
Dante.
Dante and the others.
> "Told you Freshman was soft," Dante cackled.
"Easy scapegoat. Now we run the goods without heat on us."
Fred's heart twisted.
They had used him.
Set him up.
All along.
He slid down the cold wall, hands shaking with rage, betrayal, hopelessness.
His body hurt.
But his soul hurt more.
How much more could one person endure?
As darkness swallowed him whole, Fred realized something:
> "I am alone. I can only trust myself. If I want to survive, I must become something else."
Something stronger.
Something terrifying.
Something untouchable.
---